2014.02.19 - Scuzz Bukkit Tango
Cities are just another kind of jungle, and Victor Creed thrives in jungles. Suicide Slum is a lousy place for most people, but it suits Sabretooth just fine: not many cops, easy prey, sinful amusements, interesting smells. Some of it stinks but Creed didn't have a human's aesthetics about such things. Lousy smells were sometimes the most interesting. Most people give him a wide berth by instinct, especially this late at night. Even with his claws in the jacket of his coat, it's hard not to notice the amber eyes, the fanged mouth...the aura of threat and danger that constantly surrounds him. On the hunt or not, Creed's a predator and the local fauna goes still or lays low. Then, a really interesting scent hits him: a mixture of steel and blood, sweat and perfume, lipstick and...something else. Madness. The sweat of the mad tastes different, smells different. It's like there's some sort of crazy juice gets all mixed up in it. And then there's another smell on her, faint, very faint, just incidental...but familiar. "Wilson," Creed snarls to himself, breaking into a fanged smile as he flares his nostrils, starting to track that scent: Typhoid's scent. Having tied Harley up at home, yet again, Typhoid Mary enjoyed pushing Wade out the window before she headed out for a night on her own. It's one thing to sit there and watch while your ex-boyfriend guzzles every ounce of alcohol in a matter of seconds...only to be drunk for a maximum of two minutes, at most--but, when it's premium booze, when it's somethin' YOU bought, for YOURSELF... Well, that's another thing, altogether. So, she leaves some raw steaks out for the hyenas and beats a hasty retreat. To the darker side of town, where someone might pick a fight, or look at her in the wrong way...and give her a reason to murder them. Living in such close quarters with two other crazies is stressful, and it takes its toll on Mary, no matter how good the sex is, or how convenient ...no, there's not a whole lot of a benefit to living with Wade, except maybe being able to push him in front of you, should death come looking for you. So, her boots making gritty moist noises as she walks the filthy streets of the Suicide Slums, Mary slams a trachea-crushing punch into the throat of a guy who pops out of the shadows. She's not even surprised, she just seems bored and continues walking on her path, not even pausing as he falls to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping for air that won't come. When she steps into the bar, 'Scuzz Bukkit,'--she guesses it had tried to profit off of Limp Bizkit, back in the day...though, from all appearances, not successfully--which is incredibly run down and stinks of booze, piss, and cigarette butts. "Gimme a whiskey, the best ya got," she demands of the bartender--a not-that-attractive woman whose face shows the lines of dealing with assholes and losers all night long. She settles on the seat at the bar and tucks her hands into her jacket pockets as she waits, slightly hunched over the bar with her dreads spilling to either side of her face. To Creed, Typhoid's scent is almost visible, like cigarette smoke trailing in her wake. Once he's latched onto a scent, he's virtually impossible to lose, even for those experienced at such things and trying to avoid him. So it's soon enough that he finds himself looking down at a gurgling man clutching his throat, trying to breathe even as shards of his own spine poked raggedly through muscle and tendon. It would be a mercy to kill him, really, to free him from the inevitable slow, bleeding pain. It might take him all night to die. Creed walks on. The bouncer steps out of the way as the massive mutant comes in the door, not even thinking about a cover or ID. Not worth it. Cat eyes flick and skitter over the patrons, the tattooed and gluttonous and scabby residents all blending into a singular odor, a miasma of degradation and desperation. But Creed just focuses and...ah, there she is, the dreads catching his eye immediately as he stalks over and moves to lean against the bar next to her. "Whiskey. Glass." he says to the bartender, not even looking at the girl yet. This close, he didn't need to look. He could hear the blood in her veins, the thud of her heart. She'd punctured a lung once, that hint of wheeze, just a half second, on every third breath from scar tissue blocking her alveoli. Might cost her a quarter of a second here and there, but she knew she was fast. The blades he could smell, too, could probably tell you what they're made of. Maybe who made 'em. Only on thing interests him at the moment. "Deadpool," he says out loud. Harley Quinn says, "Oh, sure, you smell Wade, but not the greasepaint traces on her th--" Typhoid Mary laughs! Typhoid Mary's sure he smells that, too. ;) Victor Creed says, "I do, it's just not interesting to Creed. Yet. It might come up yet. :)" Harley Quinn just hecklin'. ;) Typhoid Mary barely spares the bartender a look when she delivers the drink. No napkin underneath, sure as fuck no coaster, and a minimum sloshed out by the careless hand. Mary grabs the woman's wrist and squeezes it. Hard. She doesn't look up, but she does say, "I'm fuckin' payin' for it, cunt. 'Least you can do is not fuckin' spill it." She shoves the woman's arm back at her and resumes her hunch over her personal area, which now includes the glass. She takes a pull from the glass and her lip sneers briefly at the cheap quality of their 'best.' Whatever. It'll get her drunk. S'not like she hasn't drunk worse, before. So, she digs in and tries to clear her mind. She needs to just...not think for a little while. To not...hear giggling and gunshots. Just... The last thing she wants to think about is... "Deadpool," says a gruff, deep male voice. With a sigh, she rolls her eyes and says, "...has probably rejoined the living, already, and is off drinking someone else's $150 bottle of whiskey without permission. I don't know where he is and, at the moment, I don't care." She sits up, straightening her back, and swiveling on her seat to look at Creed, finally. She didn't know what to expect, but the expression on her face shows a measure of surprise, perhaps. He's so...big. And, stuff. "And, whatever he did to piss you off, or whatever, is no concern of mine," she finishes, narrowing her eyes slightly. Victor Creed turns his own head then, putting him face to...well, he has to look down a bit. Consequence of being massive, a state that has benefits and costs. He takes in the girl without a hint of shame in his eyes, her scantily clad figure earning an arch of eyebrows. Bold, especially in a place this nasty, flashing the goods that much, practically an invitation. Of course, judging from the state of the cockroach outside, she didn't have much to worry about. In response, his tongue flicking over his bestial canines. No mistaking that look, Mary's seen it often enough, although perhaps not quite so...naked and feral. "That's...pretty specifically worded. Don't know where he is now, but how 'bout where he's been? Where he's gonna be? And don't think o' lyin', cause I can tell that sort of thing, dollface," he says, throwing back an entire glass of whiskey, giving a slight snort as the only allowance for the drink's stiffness. Of course, it would take twenty of those for him to feel anything, but it was satisfying in its own way, that burn. "As for what's between me an' him...well, that's one o' those long and windin' tales, an' you don't strike me as the type to be real fond o' storytime. Although I bet yer damn cute in pigtails. But you know all Wade really has to do to piss someone off...is be Wade. But I ain't lookin' to kill 'im, not today. Might have...a proposition for 'im is all." Typhoid Mary is used to that look, of course. It is quite intense coming from such a big man with such sharp teeth, and... Well. But, though her heart-rate spikes a bit, and her body gives off a burst of pheromones, her face doesn't reveal much. "It was specifically worded, because it's an irritated response regarding an irritating person who has IRRITATED me," she explains, her eyes narrowing even more. "Now... I do know where he has been and where he's likely to be, at some point. You say you've got no intention of killin' him--which would be a feat, indeed, since he does it on a fuckin' daily basis--and that's all fine by me," she allows, tossing her /own/ whiskey back before placing the glass back on the bar. She wipes the wetness from her bottom lip and chin with the sleeve of her jacket, very ladylike. "But, he ain't the only one who might be there an', let's say--Wade bein' Wade--he irritates you and it comes to a knockdown dragout. Whoever else is there might get hurt in the crossfire, so to speak," she finishes. "So, I don't really wanna tell you where that place is, just for safety measures. But... I could arrange a meetin'. I could even ensure it'd be a surprise for him, if that's whatcha want," Mary finishes. Creed pushes the whiskey glass at the bartender, not even othering to provide instructions, although the teasing stroke of his adamantium nail along the glass probably doesn't reassure her. The big man rolls over what the girl said in his mind, able to measure the truth in her words and finding it there, even if it wasn't particularly satisfying. Interesting, though...yes, and not just for that gush of pheromones, although he does enjoy that, like fresh pollen sprayed from a flower and signifying much the same thing: open for business. Creed, contrary to his reputation, actually does have self control, shelving the particularly physical thoughts that come to mind for later. "Ah, I do so like surprisin' people. A meet would be just fine by me, little girl, although I do hope he don't hold it against ya," he smiles. "He's such a pussy about things like that sometimes. But what's a little betrayal between friends now and then, I always say." he says, taking the refilled glass and downing it again, one gulp, "So, how exactly do you know that well-armed little pustule?" There's an increase in the heat that Typhoid Mary puts off as he sizes her up, weigh the validity of her words, and considers his response. He can tell that she runs hot, as it is, but with the increase of her heartbeat and the surge of pheromones, her body temperature rises higher still. A thin sheen of sweat begins to bead on her forehead, and it's not from the alcohol. She, too, shoves her glass at the lady, "Double." Inhaling, Mary leans back a bit, and recrosses her legs, the leather creaking and its heated scent rich. "Fine. I'll set up the meet. If he's mad about the outcome of the surprise, I'll just remind him of the $150 bottle of whiskey he chugged in under a fuckin' minute, and burped right in my fuckin' face afterwards. When I pushed him out the window, he seemed confused, so maybe this'll get it through his thick-ass skull," she responds. "As for how well I know him... That's a complex question. I know him about as well as anyone can, considering he's batshit crazy. And, I know him in the biblical sense. We used to be a thing, but it was brief, and since we met back up, we've scratched each other's itches from time to time. But, not so much, lately," she shrugs. Victor can read body language almost as well as scent, feeling the conflict in the girl, drawn towards him yet knowin' he's gonna scratch her. Little bitch probably has plenty of old scratches scarrin' her up as it is. Not that he gives a shit. A woman who's been around at least knows what she's doing them. Teaching can be fun, but only if they're...durable. "I imagine Wade has a lot of itches. Scratchin' 'em can be a full time job. YOu must have a strong stomach," he grins, those oversharp canines living up to his codename, fierce and beyond feral, "Wilson's an idiot, but he's a useful idiot. Maybe, if he's being that much of an ass, I can put him on better behavior. Wouldn't be the first time I've had to take that rabid little pup by the scruff," he says. "What he sees in you is obvious, since your tits alone'd melt butter on a cold day, but I'll be good an' goddamned if I can imagine what the fuck you'd want with a walkin' shitbag like Deadpool." Typhoid Mary narrows her eyes, almost as if she can hear what's going on in Creed's mind. But, mostly, she can read the look in his eyes, the body posture, and the expression on his face. She doesn't have the dive in telepathically to catch the gist of his opinion of her. What with the way she's dressed and what she just told him, well, it's easy to draw conclusions that will make her rather murderous, should they be actually voiced. "Wade's itches are complex and strange, usually. It's like going into a lion-infested funhouse with lube, whipped cream, napalm, and broken glass, and coming out a changed person. But, it's different. It's never boring," she takes her refreshed glass--able to tell it apart from his because there's no scratch on it. She tosses her drink back and pauses, sniffs, and puts the glass down. "Yeah. My tits are great. They make the sun rise every day," she sounds bored. "When we first got together, well, it's complicated. And, kinda like your history with him. As for now? I really can't tell you, honestly. I don't know the answer myself," she clears her throat and cracks her neck. "But, if you don't mind. I'd like to stop talking about that asshole, 'cause I came here to not think about him or anyone else," she says flatly. Creed grins, unable to help himself. Damn, this girl has some guts. He'd had grown men, military man, piss in their pants just lookin' him in the eye. And here this hooker sat, bold as brass, half-naked and well-armed and practically daring him to try something. Not to mention openly disdaining him. He was okay with disgusting people because he didn't give a shit about their opinions, but so few did it with such panache. "Ain't no problem on my end, we can sort meet details later. Truth be told, I ain't exactly a sparklin' conversationalist by trade. Guessin' by the number o' blades on you that you ain't just a pretty face. Although..." and his nostrils flare, "Why do you smell like...the circus...greasepaint and..." and he gets a really odd look on his face, "hyenas?" Typhoid Mary's look turns sour at the grin, but her heart-rate spikes higher, her pheromones crank up another notch, and her temperature throbs. But, she really does seem angry. Quite angry. She bites the inside of her cheek--hard enough to draw blood, Creed can tell. "There's certainly more than meets the eye," she agrees, her teeth lightly tinged with red, a hint of blood beginning to peek out at the center of her lower lip. At the nostril flare and the following question, Mary's heart speeds up more. "That'd be my choice piece of ass, at the moment. Maybe more trouble than it's worth, but we'll see," she says gruffly, as if she's not welcoming further inquiry. She slams her hand on the bar and barks at the bartender, "It's EMPTY. It should be FULL. You act like you ain't in this for the money. I can certainly take my business else-fuckin'-where." Victor Creed isn't particularly bothered by Mary's foul temper. One, he just doesn't care. Two, people who spend inordinate amounts of time with Wade Wilson have good reason to be irritated. And three, the smell of that blood actually gives -him- a rush of pheromones, drawing him in rather than driving him away. "That must be a pretty wild piece, to have those kinda smells on ya..." he grins, the bartender skittering around to try and fill it as fast as she can, hand shaking. "Don't spill any now," Creed taunts her, drinking the fear like water. "Ain't got a name yet from ya. My name's Victor. I ain't meanin' to spoil yer evenin', but it ain't like I got a lotta friends around here, so I can throw down some drinks with. Ain't flirtin', seems like your dance card's plenty full," He says. It's a lie, of course, but this kinda girl gets straight hit on enough. Easier to make her come to him. Typhoid Mary throws a handful of pretzels at the bartender as she finishes filling her glass, again, and further instructs her, "Fuck off until you see this glass empty, again-- No. On second thought, just gimme the goddamned bottle, you useless gash." Wow, Mary's in a foul mood. The bartender puts the bottle on the table and hurries into the back to have a good cry. The thoughts on the surface of the bartender's mind are, ((Not enough money for this shit. Who does she think she is?! Where does she get off?!)) Overhearing this telepathically, Mary reaches behind the counter and grabs another bottle and forcefully slings it in the direction of the Staff Only section--which causes it not only to break and spill liquor (tequila) everywhere...but, the door slams the bartender in the back of the head from the impact, sending her sprawling forward. Creed can hear these things happening, even if Mary can't see them. Heaving a huge sigh, she slaps her hand on the bottle of whiskey and, yanking the pouring spout out with her teeth and spitting it to the floor, she sloshes a quadruple finger of whiskey into her glass and does the same for Creed. "It was wild for a while. Now, I'm findin' myself wonderin' if it's worth the effort. S'followed me to an important meeting and could'a fucked it up for me good. Fortunately, it turned out all right. From then on, I've gotta tie that shit up at home if I need time to myself," she mutters, sipping a little more sedately at her drink. "Name's Typhoid Mary," she offers. "For what it's worth, my dance card is only as full as I feel like. I've seen my share of shit and it takes somethin' interesting to keep me invested," she continues. Deadpool has arrived. Typhoid Mary says, "Welcome!" Victor Creed waves. :) Deadpool says, "Hey Creed :)" Deadpool will wait a round or two to pose in. Typhoid Mary says, "No problem!" Victor watches as Mary curses out the bartendress taking control of the whiskey supply and seeming to be at the beginning of a pretty serious bender. Not that Creed objects, "I doubt she gets off at all, an' she's just takin' it out on us. Dry Cunt's Revenge, I think it's called," he smirks, fangs clinking against the glass as he throws back his drink. "Tied up, huh? Funky. I dunno, I don't put up with that kinda crap myself, but if the ride's worth it, it's worth it...Mary. Hell, gotta e damned impressive, I imagine." he says. With the fracas Mary made at the bartendress, a quad of burly bouncers, tat-armed and bulgy muscled, start marching across the bar, only a few feet away when the first, a dead ringer for Steve from Jerry Springer, starts to speak, "Listen, skank, get your skinny little a-GURK!!!" Creed's fault. He barely even looked, hypersensitive hearing letting him measure the source of that voice, gauging distance and height from sound alone. That's how his claws found the face so easily. The adamantium in his claws is what explains how that lethal accurate strike literally skins the man's face, muscle and bone and blood spraying, his tongue shredded like jerky as he falls backwards, drowning his comrades in crimson. "Go away. We're drinking," Creed says, turning back to the bar and ignoring the rest. Typhoid Mary's gonna have to rate this log. XD Typhoid Mary keeps Creed's glass full. If he's anything like most of the people she knows, it takes a good deal to actually get anywhere, drunk-wise. When the whiskey bottle starts getting low, she blindly feels behind the bar to find another bottle. "Well, she can drag her ass to the ER and take up her dry cunt issue with them," Mary grouses, taking a big swallow of her whiskey. "Eh.. Like I said. I tied her up because she followed me to a dangerous meeting and could'a really fucked my shit up. Luckily, everything was fine. But, I'd have had to do worse than tie her up when I go out if it hadn't been fine," she says, shaking her head as if it's a shame. "That's why you shouldn't fuck crazy--well, not /all/ crazy, 'cause certain kinds of crazy are okay," she amends before she even finishes her statement. But, that's when the bouncers start making their way toward the bar and...Creed does what he does. Mary casts a glance over her shoulder at the gory mess left of the man's face and turns a dispassionate eye on the fellow bouncers who begin retching--one even wets himself. The patrons who take notice also begin to clamor a bit, but more in the manner of making a quick exit. The Scuzz Bukkit isn't the kind of place where people dial 911 or anything like that. "Anyone else got a problem?" she asks loudly, but turns back to her drink without waiting for an answer. "We're drinking? I love drinking!" Wade is suddenly at the bar, wearing an old-timey bartender's vest and sleeve bands, and all his normal weaponry. "What kin ah get you, mack?" he asks Creed in a gravelly voice. Like a mack truck, 'cause he's so huge? He starts wiping out a beer stein with a rag. He picks up the bottle of whiskey Creed was working on and promptly upturns it, chugging the expensive bottle down in a few seconds. Well, there's another $150 worth of whiskey down the hatch. Or maybe not, Creed never made it clear. Yeah but Mary defenestrated us for that last bottle. How do you know a word like defenestrated? BoobieS! "Oh man, that was a great drink. Now I need a chaser. Anyone got some tequila?" he hollers at the bar, all of whom look horrified at Creed's act. There are some curb stompings and shootings now and then, but Creed just gave them an object lesson in violence. Victor Creed doesn't even bother to look surprised, because, really, why would he be? Wilson's been giving him a variant of this act for as long as he's known him, and it hasn't gotten any cuter, much as the human pimple himself might dispute it. Creed casually licks the blood from his claws and snorts, his other hand toying with the glass of whiskey Mary poured for him. "Nobody wants to serve ya, Wade. You gotta be used to it by now, Still, you can prob'ly lick a little tequila off the floor over there, like the hyena you smell like." He looks over at Mary, "I dunno, he's your pet. You deal with him,' he says. Frankly, he's just interested to watch the fireworks. He can talk business later. When Deadpool pops up in front of her, Typhoid Mary groans overly loudly. When he yanks the bottle of whiskey and glugs it noisily, she doesn't even see, because she's literally banging her head on the table. "Why *bang* me? *bang* Why *bang* me? *bang* Why *bang* me? *bang*" At the claim that Wade is her pet, Mary shakes her head and holds up a finger, "NO. No, no, no. He is NOT my pet. He's a temporary roommate. There is a difference. He is his own pet! Besides, YOU wanted to talk to him. You wanted to meet with him. You said somethin' about an offer for him, so go ahead. Offer," she says, waving a hand in the direction of Wade. "Get the vodka, dammit," she says, pointing at the clear bottle of clear liquid. "Your /mom/ smells like a hyena," Deadpool rebuts. "And my money spends better than yours! And my milkshake brings all the girls to the yard!" He picks up a handful of cash and starts flinging single bills at Mary. "Make it rain, up in here, up in here, y'all gonna make me lose my minds, up in here, up in here!" "I'm surprised anyone would serve you. I mean, I thought /I/ smelled back downwind-" He pauses, then lets loose with a riotously loud fart. "Whooooo! Man, that feels better," the Merc announces. I think we might have crossed the Chalupa threshold. He scoops his hand through the air, waving it Creed's direction. "You getting a whiff of that?" He gets the vodka off the shelf and turns around, already chugging it as well. He drains the bottle and looks at it. "I like this!" he tells Mary gleefully. "What's the next one?" Victor Creed sighs. Wade, of course, knows that Creed smells everything. Hell, he smelled that sucker rolling down Wade's shit canal before he felt the first tickle in his sphincter. As usual, though, there was going to be a heaping load of bullshit, distraction, joking, farting, burping, sarcastic banter, gay jokes, Canadian jokes, cat jokes, flea jokes, hairball jokes, more gay jokes, imaginary ethnicities that only existed in Deadpool's mind, but somehow managed to still be offensive jokes. And then it would all start over again in a loop. So Creed cuts through the bullshit and lashes out with a claw and plunges into Wade's chest, punching right through his sternum and in until his claws sink into the soft meat of his heart, "Not gonna rip it out this time...but you waste too much of my time...or for that matter hers...with too much o' your dog and pony show...an' I know, ya can't always help it 'cause your brainpan got fried like an egg...but you're gonna try. Try. 'cause, if you don't, I just spend the rest of the night doing this," he says, and he twists his wrist, turning Wade's heart sideways in his chest, "And you're just gonna heal around my hand until I pull it out...again and again and again...so...pretend you're not an idiot." At the shower of singles, Typhoid Mary couldn't look less enthused. She just wanted to get her drink on. Away from clowns and unkillable exes. She sighs and begins banging her head on the table, again, at the fart. "JESUSFUCK, WADE," she yells with her head down on the table, "IT'S NOT BAD ENOUGH YOU DO THAT AT HOME?!" Then, as he drinks the vodka she'd demanded, she lifts murderous eyes to him and hisses. Then, she uses TK to summon a bottle of what looks to be bourbon. She clutches it to her naked chest, and glares at Wade, "You keep your gloved mitts offa this, y'hear?!" And, then, Creed does his thing. Mary's nose wrinkles a little, but she watches with a strange sort of fascination. "That looks like it smarts. Does it smart? Is it a really sharp smarting?" she asks, laughing lightly after taking a slug of bourbon. She's slightly tipsy, now. And, starting to feel warm and good. Her muscles feel pretty loose and stretchy, the tension finally slipping away. "'Cause it looks like a really sharp smarting," she grins at Victor. The look almost transforms her face--she's definitely shades more beautiful without a scowl on her face. Just as fast as Creed sinks his claws into Wade's chest, the Merc with the Mouth swings a shotgun-type pistol up from his hip and puts two rounds of his patented Wade Brand Armor Piercing Kickass Ammunition into Victor's chest, jamming the barrel into the intercostal space between the ribs under Creed's attacking arm, and then puts the barrel against Creed's eye socket, using the trapped arm to leverage Creed so he can't lean away from the shotgun. People scream and go for cover- a knife fight is one thing, but gunshots tend to clear out the crowd. "Did You Know? You can function without a heart for a good thirty seconds," Deadpool says, staggering a bit as his blood-oxygen flow is interrupted. "And my Healing Factor is rated Ten," he adds, his heart muscles healing around Creed's claws, trying to force the razor-blade claws out. "And I have a stat /just for how awesome I am/. Also, I'm better at everything than Logan is. And trust me when I tell you you won't like trying to unscramble your brain when I put a nice armor-piercing rough through your skull plate." He stares at Creed, his tone flat and professional. He leans sideways to Typhoid. How do we do a side-lean with claws in our chest? Don't question it too much. "And this is a six, on the scale of 1 being getting that little somethin' somethin' from you the other night being to a ten being that time I swallowed that M80 firecracker. Also, Mary, you are so /cute/ when you smile!" Victor Creed doesn't blink, cocking his head to actually lean into the shotgun, "First of all, Wade, ol' pal, really? Trying to scare me? I taught you how to be scary. I spent a week scarin' you every night until you shit your pants. I still remember the smell. So, as they used to say, don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs. Your everything you can do I can do better horseshit might work on Logan, 'cause Logan thinks he's a fuckin' samurai." "And if you kept up with your Weapon X trivia, you'd know that I got an adamantium skull installed. So, if that sucker's got a slug an' you think you can get it through my eyehole dead to rights 'fore I can move my head and start eating through your face...I can do that dance. But I was just gettin' your attention." "See, I've got plans. You don't need to know 'em, 'cause they ain't gonna concern you. What will concern you is that I might have to make a few things dead without fingers pointin' my way...an' that's a job opportunity. If you like cash, still." Hugging her bottle of bourbon--which is definitely better than the whiskey that lyin' dry-cunted barbitch gave her the first time around--Typhoid Mary watches this like she's watchin' a soap opera. If she didn't know there's all manner of fecal spatter, scrotal smatter, and fuck-knows-what-else in the bowl of pretzels, she'd be shoving those in her mouth. But, she knows, so she doesn't. At Wade's compliment, she giggles--it's kind of disgustingly cute, despite her look and general demeanor. But, then, she remembers that it's WADE. And, she puts on her grumpiest face possible--which still kinda looks cute, 'cause she's drunk and trying not to laugh. She takes another healthy guzzle of bourbon and sits back a bit, watching the events unfold. It's...kinda hot, what's happening, right now. Mary's heartbeat is racing and she's giving off pheromones like a cat in heat. The violence, the threats, the blood, and general menace... She's hugging that bottle between her legs and squirming a bit, giggling a little as she listens. "Carbonadium bullets," Deadpool says, tossing a shotgun shell underhanded at Creed. "With adamantium core tips. Ever seen a shotgun that can defeat Arsenal 10?" He flicks a knife out and uses it like a pry bar to lever Creed's hand out from his thoracic cavity More big words!, then reholsters the shotgun. "Been running into too many super types lately with flippin' Adamantium skin or bulletproof vests or stupid theoretically BatArmor. So y'know, I'm stocking up on armor piercing ammunition. Next time I run into Batman, I'm gonna ruin his day with some FN 5.7 tungsten core rounds. But if you wanna test your healing factor--?" he asks, half drawing the shotgun pistol. "And I don't remember any of that. I remember being a sexy special forces soldier from Canada, eh? and then going around the world being a badass, doing badassery. Though there was that o/~ one night in Bangkok... "That makes a hard man humble! Not much between despair and ecstasy..."o/~ he sings, jauntily off-key. Victor Creed rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, I see your big fat gundick, Wilson. Carbonadium bullets, fuck me. Shouldn't cost a fuckin' SUV to kill a man," he sighs, looking up and grabbing a bottle of vodka off the rack, taking a long drink, "You oughtta know ain't a one of us came outta that place without our brain gettin' swiss cheesed. It's just you keep leaking milk out your ears, so everybody can see it," he sighs. He's actually getting tired of this shit. Not shoving his hand into someone's chest, god forbid. Just the constant one upsmanship. He draws his hand out of Wade's chest, soaked in gore almost to the elbow as he pushes off the bar "You were a good soldier, Wilson. I even kinda liked ya 'fore you turned into Daffy Duck. Now...now I just wanna make use of you to do what you do best: make a loud and messy noise so everyone looks where I want 'em to look." "Woah, hey, buy a guy a drink first!" Deadpool says with a snerk. Typhoid Mary can completely understand the tired look on Creed's face. Pretty much, unless someone manages to lop that head off or blast him down to a few bits of flesh, Deadpool's mouth gonna eventually wear you down. And, it's not like she, nor Creed, were expecting to deal with Wade this evening. There was supposed to be time. They were gonna have a drink, or ten, and enjoy the seediness of the bar. She sighs softly to herself, her happy drunk turning to maudlin drunk. She smiles at the disgusting gore that comes out of Wade's chest, and sighs wistfully. For some reason. She leans her head down on her arm, which she stretches across the bar, and she takes a messy drink from her bourbon bottle. So good. This bourbon is great. It's so much better than she thought it'd be. And, like, fuck those hyenas and Harley followin' her on jobs and Wade farting and eating chalupas all goddamned day long. She sighs and just kinda looks back and forth. Deadpool stands back a bit and puts the black-finished shotgun at crotch level. "It's not about size, it's about having the big black cocker," he says, running a shell through the shotgun. Then he grabs the shell, because no shit they cost about $50,000 each to make. "I hated being a soldier, Creed," Wade says, mixing drinks together at random. "I hated Weapon X. I hate your stupid face and your stupid breath. I've got a good thing going! I joined a new team, I have my own place to live, I get to hang out with hot chicks like Harley and Mary all day... Mary's been rocking the gym lately, you seen that ass? You could bounce a dime off of it." He winks broadly at Mary and drinks the entire amalgamation he'd just concocted. "Here, have some! I call it Wade's Bartender's Fuckup," he offers cheerily, pouring everyone a drink that looks like it's about to have a bad chemical reaction. Creed shakes his head, "That's the thing. Soldierin' ain't about doin' what you like, it's about doin' what yer told. O' course, I ain't much good at that myself anymore, so I can't much blame ya. Frankly, the hate's nice and mutual pally, although I don't think yer gonna be usin' your spare change on Miss Mary much longer you keep abusin' her hospitality. See, you like to get all pity party, Wilson, but you endin' up alone ain't about you bein' a freak. It's about you bein' an asshole. Just like me." He pulls his wallet, flicking a couple of hundreds onto the floor behind the bar for damages rendered. "All that shit's personal, though. I'm talkin' business. Last I heard, you're still for hire. And I wanna hire ya. And, don't worry, I'll even make sure all the people ya kill are 'bad guys', so you an' Logan don't have to weep into each other's assholse about your poor wittle consciences." He turns and looks at Mary, 'You comin', doll?" Typhoid Mary stumbles off of her seat and kicks crap outta her way, not as steady on her feet as usual. She hiccups and looks at Wade, "He's right. You're a giant ass and your mouth is like an asshole. Except, for sometimes, when y' can be nice. But, it's jus' random an' no one can ever know if yer serious 'r not. AN'.." She pauses for dramatic effect. "I won't be home t'night. 'Cause it's filthy. An' I'm sick'a alla that gross shit around. You c'n untie Harley, 'cause I bet she's prrrrrrretty sore, by now. Don' *hic* DON' FORGET or I'll... Push ya out the window 'gain. ONto somethin' hurty, very hurty," she concludes. Lookin' unsteadily at Victor, she raises her bottle of bourbon and nods her head in a decisive downward swing, "Ayep." She starts wobbling her way toward him and the door. "An'... I don' think it madders t' him who he kills anymore, 'cause he threw a thermite grenade at Loki an' he threw it inna diner fulla regular people," she says, doing a tsktsk motion at Wade. She stumbles, and laughs, clutching the bottle to her chest. "Shhh," she puts a finger to her mouth, "it's flammable in here." 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